


Not Supposed to Happen

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-05
Updated: 1999-05-05
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: What if Kowalski had not been wearing a bullet proof vest when Greta Garbo shot him?





	Not Supposed to Happen

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Not Supposed to Happen

  
Let's make this summary brief: What if Kowalski hadn't been wearing a vest  
the day Greta Garbo shot him? This story examines the results from  
Francesca's point of view, with some of my own theories about the  
Frannie/Kowalski relationship thrown in for good measure. *smile*  
There is also a major character death in this, so if you don't like that  
idea, then I'd go right now. I'll even give you a few seconds to exit....  
  
OK, now that those of you who want to stick around are still here, let me  
tell you, this is pretty dramatic. I've never been much of a whiz at  
writing humor (those of you who do are geniuses!), so this is what I do.  
Enjoy!  
  
DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimer applies. "Angel" belongs to Aerosmith,  
and I found it on the BIG ONES cd.  
  
  


## Not Supposed to Happen

  
by: Compass  
  
  
The monitors are beeping, and they're all I can hear. Those and the  
automatic breathing machine that fills his lungs for him, over and over,  
in and out. someone is talking to someone else beside me, but I don't  
hear them. All I hear are the machines.  
  
This was not supposed to happen.  
  
I remember the call, crystal clear. Welsh, sounding uncharacteristically  
panicked, "Francesca, Ray's been shot. We need you here." I honestly  
thought he meant my brother for a moment, but then I remembered the  
switch, and my throat closed.  
  
This was not supposed to happen.  
  
The copy-cat arsonist, Greta Garbo, had apparently shot Kowalski as he and  
Fraser tried to arrest her, and Kowalski was not wearing his vest. Fraser  
got her. That's good.  
  
But not before she got Kowalski.  
  
I came straight to the hospital, all sisterly worry, of course. There  
could be no other motive behind my actions. I remember how he looked  
when they wheeled him in on the stretcher: pale as a ghost, with haunted  
eyes. God, he looked awful! But he was still awake. I saw his eyes when   
he passed me: blue eyes, sure of their fate, scared to death. And I  
couldn't go to him, couldn't help him. He was there, then he was gone,  
and that's the last I saw him awake.  
  
This was not supposed to happen, dammit!  
  
How many times do I have to say it before someone pays attention? I  
can't tell people how this affects me; they wouldn't understand. How can  
I explain to them that he was my brother in name and file only? That  
behind the scenes, where no one else could see, we were so much more? I  
remember the first time I met him, when Welsh introduced him to the family  
and said he would be taking the place of Ray down at the station. Ma  
didn't care for him too much. But there was something about him. Yeah,  
he annoyed me, but there was something about that spontaneous twinkle in  
his eye that hooked me. I knew he felt something similar from the  
way he looked at me. How were we supposed to fight it? We put up a good  
show at work, of pretending to be nothing but nuisances to each other, but  
in dark corners and dimly lit apartments, we were something else.  
  
I fell in love with him. He fell in love with me.   
  
Which is why this was not supposed to happen.  
  
It was going to be something straight out of a romance novel. We'd play  
out this charade until Ray returned to take over his position, and  
Kowalski would be free of his undercover persona. Maybe I'd ask him out  
to dinner, or vice versa, and then we could pick up in the open what we  
had kept hidden so long. We had planned it all so perfectly. During  
every secret liason, we would talk about what it would be like when it was  
all over.  
  
And then this had to happen.   
  
Why? Why did this happen? Why now? Why to me? To us?  
  
I hear music now. Someone is playing a radio down the hall, and it echoes  
faintly in the distance. Probably some happy family whose child woke up  
from a three day coma and asked for her favorite song. I recognize it:  
Aerosmith.   
  
"Don't know what I'm gonna do about these feelings inside.  
Yes it's true, loneliness took me for a ride..."  
  
I stand slowly, pulling myself out of the hard cushions of the chair I've  
been occupying for so long. I move to his bedside. He looks so pale.  
The conversation, behind me now, stops, and I imagine them watching my  
back, wondering if I'll break down and cry. I haven't done that yet.  
None of this seems real. "Ray?" I don't sound like myself. Someone else  
is using my voice. "Ray? It's Frannie. Please open your eyes. Please."  
  
More music drifts down the hall...  
"You're my angel, come and save me tonight.  
You're my angel, come and make it all right.  
You're my angel, come and save me tonight."  
  
Angel. That was what I used to call him, because his eyes were so blue,  
so angel-like. But he does not open those beautiful, smoky eyes to answer  
me. All there is is more machine noises. That's what makes me cry more  
than anything. The machine sounds. He is just a shell now, who was once  
so alive. The first tear is slow and almost painful. Then comes the  
first hiccuping sob. Somewhere, the music continues...  
  
"You're the reason I live  
You're the reason I die  
You're the reason I give when I break down and cry  
Don't need no reason why  
Baby, baby, baby  
You're my angel....."  
  
My legs can't hold me up anymore, and I collapse to my knees beside his  
bed. I can't see; the tears are just too much. I feel someone's arm  
around my shoulders, hear someone's voice trying to comfort me. But all I  
can think of is those lyrics, over and over again. "You're the reason I  
live, you're the reason I die, you're the reason I give when I break down  
and cry...."  
  
I can make out the shape of Kowalski's hand, hanging limply over the edge  
of his bed, and I cling to it, pressing it against my grief-warmed cheek.  
He is so cold. "Ray, Ray, please," I beg. "Please wake up." There's no  
response.  
  
I stay like that for a long time, and the others in the room finally  
decide to leave me alone. That's all I need right now; time for him and I  
to be together. Somehow I know that this will be the end of what we could  
have had, that we will never live out that romance novel like I'd planned.  
This is more of a Greek tragedy.  
  
This should never have happened.  
  
I become aware of a new presence in the room, and a new buzz of  
conversation. I make out a few words here and there.  
  
"....prognosis, Doctor?"  
  
"Not....overnight, maybe another...."  
  
"No longer.....?"  
  
"......I'm sorry."   
  
Others are crying in the room now. I have no more tears left. I stand,  
still shaky, but better than earlier. He doesn't look empty anymore as I  
gaze down at him. He looks more angelic than ever, like he knows some  
secret none of us do. The words of the song are in my mind again, and I  
can't keep myself from whispering it's tune to him, a soft, hoarse murmur.  
"You're my angel," I sing quietly, "come and save me tonight. You're my  
angel, come and make it all right." I don't know when I started to lean  
over, but before I realize it, my lips are brushing his cheek and I'm  
whispering to him, soft and low, "I love you, Kowalski. I always will." I  
don't care if anyone else hears me. It doesn't matter now. Nothing does  
anymore. "I love you. Goodbye. Goodbye, angel. I love you."  
  
I don't want to pull away, don't want to make reality real. The others  
have crowded around the bed now- Fraser, Elaine, Welsh, even Thatcher with  
Turnbull. They all look so sad- Elaine has tears in her eyes. I wonder  
if I look the same. I should imagine I do.  
  
  
Suddenly, Huey is there too. He must have just arrived, because he leans  
over and whispers a question to Welsh. I can vaguely hear the  
lieutenant's reply: "Hopefully...last the night." I don't know if he  
means Kowalski or me.  
  
I don't know how much time passed before his heart monitor flatlined;  
before they came to disconnect him fromt he automatic breathing machine.  
The others came and went as that time passed, each one asking if I wanted  
something, none asking me to leave with them. I wouldn't have gone if  
they had. I couldn't. I stood to the side even as they disconnected him  
from his artificial life and covered his angelic face with a sheet. I  
think I cried again, but I can't remember.  
  
It should never have happened.  
  
*********  
  
I went to where he was killed today. There is a dark patch on the ground  
where his life ran out of him, but unless you know what it is, you could  
mistake it for an oil stain. The only clue is the yellow, "Police line,  
do not cross," tape that surrounds it.   
  
I don't know why I came. No, that's a lie. I know exactly why I came.  
To be near him again, before the next big rain washes him away. His  
funeral is in a few days. I'm scared to go; scared of what will happen if  
I go.  
  
More scared of what will happen if I don't.  
  
I brought a razor blade with me today. The idea of mingling my blood with  
his is immensely appealing and repulsive to me. I want to be with him,  
but I don't want to die. I can't see my way out.  
  
I raise the blade to my wrist and kneel down before the stain.  
  
This is not supposed to happen, Frannie.  
  
I can almost hear his voice scolding me. The image is so real, so  
perfect, I look around to see where he is. But he isn't there- he's dead  
and gone, in another place. But I heard his voice, I know I did.  
  
He doesn't want this for me, for us. I know that. I don't either. I  
stand slowly, staring down at the stain. In a quick motion, I fling the  
razor blade out into the depths of lake Michigan.   
  
"I'm sorry, Ray." To my surprise, I'm crying. "I'm sorry, angel. I'll  
see you, I promise. But not yet. Not just yet."  
  
I feel his agreement in the wind, the breeze that blows across my face  
like his phantom kiss.   
  
Turning, I don't look back at the place where my love died. I walk away.  
I will go to his funeral, I will say goodbye, I will grieve, and I will  
move on. Maybe marry. Have children. Live a long, pleasant life, then  
one day, I will die. That is the day I will be with him again.   
  
That is what is supposed to happen.  
  
That is what will happen.  
  
It is a romance novel after all.  
  



End file.
